You never had to travel very far outside yourself to have doubt. There’s so much you have to unlearn about yourself. Some days, it feels more like rehearsal than progress. You catch yourself distorted in the curve of the windshield. You see your eyes letterboxed by a rearview mirror–milky sick and imbued with a growing pink nebula wrapping itself around your iris. A pale cosmos, blinking to clear away tired miles. You aren’t watching headlights crawling behind you. You aren’t much interested in the sailor sun offering warnings to another tomorrow of nearly three digit degrees. Your eyes like a poured pint. There is so much surface tension. You figure out just how much can be contained.
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